"Damn you!" she cried out. "Didn't you hear me? It's starting!"

There was no reply.

She ran up to him and shook him roughly. He did not move. "Sinoval, don't you...." She shook him again. His skin was cold, unbelievably cold. "Sinoval!" She pushed him.

He fell backwards. His eyes continued to stare up into the darkness.

There are no secrets under the sun.

There are no hiding places for the shadows.

There is no time for one last request.

Those who would betray the light will fall and die, destroyed by their own darkness. Shadows flee when even a single ray of light is cast upon them. One glimpse of the sun and they are gone.

Turned to dust.

And soon there is no memory that they ever existed.

Let those who oppose the light know this: by opposing us, you align yourselves with the shadow.

Let those who align themselves with the shadow know this:

There are no secrets under the sun.

We will find you.

In a hall of endless mirrors, a place of shadows and light, one voice ringing out from all corners, John Sheridan moved, searching eternally for a way out.

Blood and darkness and wine.

The feast was continuing in the shadow of his mind. Never-ending joy and merriment and wine and women and, yes, even song.

No pain. No grief. No loss.

But as he drank it, he saw for the first time that the wine was not wine, but blood, and the food was not the flesh of animals, but the flesh of his people, and the song was not of rapturous celebration but a dirge for the dead and the dying.

Go back, the voices said.

Go back, the song said.

Go back, the singers said.

"No," replied Emperor Londo Mollari II. "I am happy here."

If only his people were so happy....

The Tuchanq attacked with a savage, careless, heedless frenzy. They suicide-rammed the few defence grid satellites still working. They hurled their ships into buildings and lakes. The earth rose and fell.

They brought their song to the land.

They sang as they died.

And where were the others? Where were the defenders of Centauri Prime?

Morden closed his eyes in a gesture that might have been prayer or might simply have been a refusal to accept what was happening. There was no fear. Why would he be afraid?

He was safe in a fortified bunker half a mile under the ground.

He had been woken up in the middle of the night by an Inquisitor at his bedside. He had been afraid then, for a single moment. The Drazi Inquisitor's ice-cold eyes stared at him, as if looking directly into his soul. Morden knew he had done nothing for which he should be afraid, but the fear was there regardless. He said nothing.

The Drazi nodded. "Come."

They had taken him to this place, a secret place they had constructed in quiet, in silence. It was a place of torture, of screams, of agonies born in nightmares. It was also, for now, a place of sanctuary.

Morden wanted to do something, anything. The Inquisitors had their ships. Surely they were more than a match for any bandit raiders? A message had been sent to the Alliance, but surely there was something to do now?

"No," the Inquisitor had said, when he had dared broach the subject. "He is here. We must draw him out into the light."

"He?" Morden had a sickening feeling he knew who. Only one person could inspire that much hatred in an Inquisitor.

"The Accursed."

"Sinoval?"

The Inquisitor's hand had suddenly been at his throat, squeezing tightly. Morden felt all the breath leave his body a second after all the warmth left his soul.

The Drazi spoke slowly, flawlessly, dwelling on every syllable.

"You will never speak that name again."

He had not.

And so all he had to do was wait.

Durla at her side, Timov looked at the cold, uncomfortable chair in front of her. Durla had been assigned to watch her, although many people might have wondered whether it was for her safety or their own. Few of them, few of the players in the Great Game, would imagine she was equally capable of watching him back.

Besides, for now, they had.... an understanding of sorts.

Londo's bedchamber was well guarded, as many guards as they could spare, but Timov herself had to be here. This was no time to hide. Power had to be wielded and be seen to be wielded, and she could do more here. The Ministers and lords and nobility had fled, some to hide or defend their estates, others to take the fight to the enemy. Timov was alone.

"They will make for the palace, lady," Durla said. She looked at him. "If they plan to invade and occupy they will need to secure the palace. If they merely desire plunder they will get more of that here than anywhere else. If they desire destruction, what better place to destroy?"

"I know," Timov said.

"And you are still here because...?"

"Someone has to be."

She looked around. The guards were here. Her men, and Durla's. Anyone Durla had chosen to be here now was obviously very deep in their respective conspiracy. Either that or very skilled.

"Do you want to be ready for them when they arrive?" she asked, indicating the throne.

"No, lady," he replied. "Your husband still lives and has not yet abdicated. I am not yet Emperor."

"It must gall you, Durla. You seek more than anything else to restore us to an era of glory, and merely a handful of days after we set each other on that path, we are attacked and threatened."

It was one of the very rare occasions she had ever seen true emotion in Durla's face. His eyes sparkled. "My lady," he said simply. "The lower we are, the greater the journey to the top. The greater the challenge, the greater the victory."

Timov nodded, a chill passing through her. This was a man with no understanding of Centauri life, no knowledge of or care for those who would fall.

A problem for another day.

"Well, then," she said primly. "It falls to me."

She ascended the steps and took the throne. All either of them had to do now was wait.

Moreil spread his arms wide, basking in the joy of righteous chaos.

"Masters, be pleased!" he cried.

"He is a threat," said the ever-present Narn voice at his side. "By G'Quan, listen to me, Moreil!"

He turned from the sight of the battle to look at Mi'Ra. For a moment he was mildly irritated, but then he quashed the emotion. Nothing could destroy this feeling of rapture. The spreading of chaos, the winnowing of the weak. This was what he lived for.

"He knows who I am. He must know of our.... understanding. Moreil! Listen to me, damn you! The Wykhheran fear him!"

"The Wykhheran know no fear in battle, but battle is all they understand. It is all they were created for." Moreil's eyes closed in near ecstasy. "The glories of battle."

"Listen, I don't care how good he is. The danger is in what he knows. Send a Faceless after him and it will be over in seconds. No one can withstand a Faceless."

Moreil smiled. "You may be proved wrong, but no. The Faceless were created to destroy the cowards, those who wield the reins of power in secret, behind the masks of illusion. Marrago is not one of those. He is a warrior. He will be dealt with as a warrior."